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RHYMES 






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RHYMES 


BY 

M. K. W. 



BOSTON 

Geo. H. Ellis Co., Printers, 272 Congress Street 
1903 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Receiver 

SEP 8 1903 ; 

Copyright Entry 

<Zu 9 ,itf>9q*z 

CLASS XXc. No \ 

COPY B. 


PS35^5 

.Es*5K« 

\ c \03 


Copyright, 1903 
By Maud K. Wellington 







CONTENTS. 


PART I. 

PAGE 

The Engagement of the Bachelor’s-button ...... t 


The Catilines.13 

Helping Mamma.13 

A Rag-doll’s Soliloquy.16 

Little Johnny G.18 

Why May not I? . . . 19 

Pickaninnies.22 

A Tinman.23 

Grimalkins.24 

The Queen of the Brownies.26 

Brownies at Nantucket.27 

Pussy-willows.28 

Flowerets.29 

A Picture. 32 

Put off at Wellington.• 33 

A Wonder-bag. 34 


PART II. 


Questioning. 

Heart’s-ease. 

Forget us not. 

Robbie. 

Easter Lilies. 

A Legend of the Golden-rod 
The Imprisoned Beam . . . 

The Cineraria. 

The Mother-heart .... 

General Hooker . 

A Dispute. 

Peter Inness Grunt . . . 
The Witches’ Steed . . . 

That Horrid Crease . . . 


39 

41 


. 44 



.^48 
■ A9 
■' 5 ° 

• 5 1 
. ‘.52 

• 54 


56 


57 
































PART I. 


TO THE LITTLE HUMAN FLOWERS 


PART I. IS DEDICATED 


THE ENGAGEMENT OF THE BACHELOR’S- 
BUTTON. 


The young poppy said (at least, so we are told) 

That a bud will soon wed the gay marigold; 

Be that as it may, this one thing is certain — 

The engagement of the bachelor’s-button. 

Although he has been somewhat of a rover, 

He’s now decided upon the white clover; 

The wedding will be in a flowery spot, 

And jack-in-the-pulpit will there tie the knot. 

The zinnia whispers that her sister thinks 
The ushers chosen are those old-fashioned pinks, 

And she’s recently heard that it is the plan 
To ask the sweet-william to be the best man. 

For maid of honor which have they invited ? 

The lovely wild-rose, the daisy feels slighted; 

But they both may be away at that season, 

If the rose declines, ’twill be for this reason. 

The golden-rod says that he’ll soon make the ring, 

And skilfully fashion the wee, dainty thing. 

The dew-drops will bring gems, e’er sparkling and fair, 
The ferns will send wreaths of the fine maiden-hair, 
The sun-beams will form a high, glistening arch, 

And song-birds will carol the grand wedding-march; 
Though of course it will add somewhat to the bill, 

The pet canary is expected to trill. 

The humming-bird suggests that she’ll be around, 


4 


To touch up their feathers and smooth out their gown, 
But she is uneasy, the flyaway thing, 

If nervous she makes them they’ll not try to sing. 

The honey-bees agree to give a fine spread, 

Their queen superintends, the black beetle said. 

’Tis under discussion which flower can make, 

All things considered, the best dark wedding-cake; 

Such important questions the prospective bride 
Suggests that they leave to the 4 sage * to decide, 
Though polyanthus, ’tis lately conceded, 

Is the most useful when such things are needed. 

The friendly field-blossom obligingly begs 
That they will use freely her butter-and-eggs, 

And the dear fire-bird, as soon as they make it, 

Will have everything ready to bake it. 

(For the birds’ tiny coal it surely is nice 
That they have not to pay a high, fancy price; 

As to their temper they are very unlike, 

But one thing is sure — they are known ne’er to 
“ strike.”) 

For fanciful icing Jack Frost still has fame, 

But flowers dislike the mere sound of his name * 

If he expected to have chance to frost it, 

By his cold manner he’s certainly lost it. 

The katydids say they will wait on each guest, 

For ease and politeness they’ll all do their best. 

The toads, obligingly, will station near by, 

To intercept any inquisitive fly, 

They have also promised that they’ll drive away 
Such spiders and ants as might happen that way. 


5 


The crickets will furnish a movable seat 
For the company each; will not that be sweet ? 

If a flower desires to move anywhere 
She can just say, “ Get up! ” and lo ! she’ll be there; 
Or she may suggest, “ If you’ll be truly kind 
“ Skip to yon table, and I’ll follow behind.” 

Though we are sorry, we shall have to confess 
That we have not heard how the bride is to dress, 
Excepting this fact — which the blossoms bewail — 
She is not to appear in a bridal veil. 

It is queer, but they say her lover is bound 
That she shall be dressed in her usual gown, 

And that the only change he’ll make, by the bye, 

Is just to put on a new blue and white tie; 

Of course a bachelor would like well to see 
How cranky and odd he could possibly be, 

But this gossip is from the morning-glory, 

She’s inclined not to stop at the first story. 

The phlox has decided that she’ll grace the scene 
In a waist of white and a skirt of dark green; 

’Tis thought for ornament (she holds her head high) 
That she has engaged a meek young butterfly: 

Her orders will be, “ Perch at my neck — there, so ! 
“ And keep your wings still, till I tell you to go.” 
The dahlia has not yet been able to find 
Among her many gowns one quite to her mind, 

If none of them suit her she’ll be in a pet, 

For in some of her moods she’s dreadfully set. 

The shy forget-me-not will be present, too, 

Her new dress is ready — a pale azure blue; 


6 


Around the tiny waist clings a thread of gold — 

A bit of the sunset strayed in, we are told. 

The periwinkle will accept, just for fun, 

Should she chance to be late, we know she can run; 
She desires to look fresh, and says she believes 
She’ll stop on her way for a new set of leaves. 

The dear wisteria climbed, long since, so high 
She can only look down, with perchance a sigh. 

The petunia is in despair they say, 

Her only light dress was torn the other day : 

Of the flaring skirt one side is badly slit, 

The ‘ darning-needle ’ says that she can mend it, 

The petunia thinks it will no doubt show, 

She says if it does she’s not willing to go; 

But dear me! you’ll find that that’s nothing but talk, 
She’ll not stay at home if she’s able to walk, 

If she could but sit up and manage to rule 
She’d have friends take her on a borrowed toad-stool; 
As for her torn gown,— why she’d attend, good lack 1 
In her bicycle suit or her morning sacque. 

That the flowers ride we wonder if you know, 

Wheels the cyclamen keeps for those that will go. 

The tiger-lily ’tis hoped will not be there, 

Smaller blossoms shake he gives them such a scare, 
His great flaring mouth and his many dark spots 
Are too much for their nerves — the poor little tots! 
The bride-elect said if he should come her way 
She’d not promise but that she’d faint dead away. 

The ragged-robin may decide not to go, 

Unless he can borrow a neat suit you know, 


7 


Though as Dame Nature planned just what he should 
wear, 

And ’tis her own lookout, he doesn’t much care, 

But he will arrange, if they’ll tell him the day, 

To earlier start and run out of the way. 

Every one likes him, howe’er he is dressed : 

His heart and his temper are each of the best; 

He is just as serene — ’tis needless to state — 

Housed for the winter or out early and late. 

(The fond everlasting is e’er constant, too, 

The fountain of youth must be hid where she grew.) 

The ushers are cautioned to take constant heed 
That on no account do they admit a weed : 

They will say, “ Your presence we cannot allow, 

“So just move right along without any row.” 

But if the burr appears she will no doubt stay, 

She finds it so hard to tear herself away, 

And none of the flowers congregated there 
Could move the determined old lady a hair. 

This one simple fact we all know to be true — 

Whate’er she starts about she’s sure to stick to, 

When we pass her way she is apt to arrange 
To go slyly with us, away for a change. 

They wish that the thistle lived not so near by, 

Her remarks are so sharp the young blossoms cry: 

Of gloxinias did you hear what she said ? 

Why, that she’d not be seen with such a long head; 

And she’s tired of meeting, she’ll plainly confess, 

The passion-flower,— odd, and queer in her dress. 
Lantana she sees is beginning to fade: 


8 


Tis strange she still wears that trying orange shade; 

Of course each flower must do as she chooses — 

She shouldn’t buy the scent the musk-plant uses, 

And she thinks the striped-grass makes far too much 
spread, 

He’s too green to know that he’s always lacked head, 
’Tis also a fact she’d be blind not to see,— 

More two-sided no one could possibly be. 

Thus it is, that whene’er she says anything 
Touching others it has a prick and a sting; 

This for a habit is so unkind you know, 

Let us remember to avoid doing so, 

We might agree to have the opposite way 
Of ever choosing something pleasant to say, 

’Twould be so lovely, as of course you would find, 

For little flowers to be thoughtful and kind. 

They’ve not asked the orchid, they say she’d decline, 

As she is important, conceited and fine; 

She knows, on occasions exclusive and grand, 

She of all flowers is the one in demand. 

She’s fond of talking— ’tis hard work to hush her — 
She says that she saw Prince Henry of Prussia! 

When she is ailing, the frog feels very sure 
That they take at each hour her temperature, 

But just what the facts are we have not yet learned — 
He thinks that her head is decidedly turned, 

And that ere she’ll even condescend to grow 
Earth, air and water must be just about so. 

We desire to know (the blossoms do not say) 

Which of her kindred will give the bride away, 


9 


Neither do they seem at all inclined to tell 
Which they have chosen to ring the wedding-bell; 

When each one is blooming, gay and hopeful too, 

They shouldn’t have blue-bell she’s ever so ‘ blue ’; 
Whiche'er they prefer, when they wish to stop her 
They can send word by the lively grasshopper; 

If they want a flower, sedate and steady, 

The scarlet-runner stands equipped and ready. 

One ‘ bright ’ as he is will have matters well fixed — 
He’ll not forget half, and then get the rest mixed; 

So decidedly “mixed ” do some blossoms grow, 

To find one quick-witted is pleasant you know. 

The bell will be hung in a unique bower, 

Expressly designed by the great sun-flower: 

His miniature sisters will consent to grace 
The delicate arch when it is all in place, 

Lovely German ivies are to interlace, 

In profusion rich, around its slender base, 

The clematis says that she will lend her art 
To cover tastefully the remaining part, 

And the coleus the designer is bound, 

Shall pose just behind, for a striking background. 

The bough where the singers will stand all in line 
Is being festooned by canary-bird vine; 

The umbrella-palm has been asked it is said 
To form a canopy o’er each little head, 

Although very much feared it is by the bye 
That she’ll find the perch altogether too high. 

The woodpecker says that with but a few taps 
He’ll make holes for pegs ; they will there hang their 
caps. 


10 


It is probable her kindred will decide 
To allow the blossoms to kiss the sweet bride; 

Soon as the hour is set we will let you know, 

Then we all will stand near, and see how things go. 
The lark says he’ll send, in his own charming ‘note,’ 
The best invitations a bird ever wrote. 

We are confident (this is ’twixt you and me) 

That money-plants forward the large marriage-fee; 

The dandelion said — you know he’s funny — 

That they run for fear one will steal their money, 

He also has given a very broad hint 

That he thinks they get it unseen from the mint. 

All trifling expenses ’tis said, by the way, 

The pennyroyal is commissioned to pay; 

Should you chance to see them, no doubt you will find 
By solomon’s-seal business notes will be signed. 

The dusty-miller has now, ’tis said, on hand 
Flour for the bride’s cake — his own, peculiar brand. 
The ingenious box-tree is trying to make 
Souvenir boxes for the rich wedding-cake; 

He has an idea — he says that it is new — 

Of having thereon a likeness of the two, 

With the name of each (the date also you know) 
Inscribed on a love-knot traced deftly below. 

The candytuft hopes such confections to send 
As shall to his name notoriety lend. 

They have one odd thing — the eye it much pleases,— 
A wedding-bell formed of cunning field-cheeses, 
Suspended above is a clover-leaf heart 
With for an arrow a long button-leaf dart. 


Trumpet-flower brothers say they’ll ‘play and call,’ 
So ‘ buds ’ will wind up with a fancy snow-ball, 

And if it ends not ere the dark shades of night 
Fire-flies have promised to be there with a light; 
They’ve planned to congregate, just over the way, 
And have a surprising electric display. 

The fair snow-drop herself (’tis all her idea) 

Will give decorations and favors we hear; 

She’s asked johnny-jump-up — he’s ready and bright 
To aid her that evening in having things right; 

The affair they think, and not without reason, 

Will be the greatest event of the season. 

For matrons they’ll have (they were first at a loss) 
The elderberry and that sober, gray moss; 

They did not expect she’d consent we are told — 
She clings to her home though ’tis sombre and cold. 

The china-aster — that is, if she’s able — 

Will pick out a set for the bride’s tea-table; 

The pitcher-plant will his own useful self lend, 

When he is needed they have only to send, 

For the goblets, golden, each on its green stand, 
Buttercups, half open, will e’er be at hand. 

The lady’s-slipper announces she herself 
(In her newest gown) will grace the mantel-shelf; 
The milk-weed wonders whether they would accept 
Her own fairy down, in the pod where ’tis kept. 

The spider is at work on a filmy shawl, 

(She will carry it when she goes there to call,) 

And she is spinning for the bride’s petite head 
An open-work scarf of fine, gossamer thread; 

The Indian pipe-stem they’ve questioned to see 
If he’ll make a meerschaum for smart Mr. B. 


12 


The couple, ’tis said, will lodge and take their meals 
With the bride’s old-time friends,— those green, common 
fields! 

The young Mrs. Button will find as a rule 
That high-born blossoms will incline to be cool; 

Much in its favor, the room will not be small 
When flowers all go for a fine wedding call. 

So the choice may be well although we suppose 
They might board with that sweet, cultivated rose, 

For she lives alone in a large, roomy bush 
^\nd never had money — her kindred lack push. 

Their name was ‘ Roosevelt ’ the elder roses say, 

Till it was shortened one sad, unlucky day; 

Gardeners, unkindly, then left out one 4 o ’ — 

They may not recall, but no doubt it is so. 

The Marshal Niel rose (we’d not heard it before) 

Says his middle name was ever ‘ Theodore.’ 

They would rather like the vain orchid to know — 

A truth they’ll e’er treasure with deepening glow,— 

The Emperor’s brother, as all New York knows, 

When leaving our shore took, for emblem, a rose! 

The type of sweetness, gentleness, beauty, grace,— 

The feminine side of free, advancing race 
Where intellect and right should sit on the throne, 

And justice and peace find the kingdom their own. 

As to the two flowers, will it not be nice ? 

They’ll be drawn by a pair of docile field-mice. 

The steeds will be harnessed, when time comes to start,. 
To a maple leaf, which will make a fine cart; 

The sides will be fastened, all in a neat roll, 


13 


The long, slender stem will be right for the pole; 

A young caterpillar they happened to meet 
Will obligingly form a round furry seat. 

We believe ’tis said that both harness and rein 
Will be made of hair from the white horse’s mane, 
For the mouth will be used a straw not too thick, 
Else the tiny pair won’t want to take the bit; 

Dear, kind-hearted flowers would wish not, we reck. 
To dock the mice’ tails or use overhead check. 

You know the grass stalks with a feathery tip ? 

Mr. B. will use one of those for a whip; 

To complete the turnout it surely will seem 
If a little dogwood trots after the team. 

The happy couple we will now bid good-day, 

And a nice sunny time we wish them alway. 


THE CATILINES. 

Mr. Thomas Catiline (perchance the name you know) 
Decided one winter day that he’d a sleighing go; 

Not the kind of slaying as when he takes mouse or bird, 
Though he’s rather fond of that in summer we have 
heard. 

This time he had planned to ask his wife and children 
three, 

A finer, more stylish group no one would wish to see. 
The day was cold and windy, you’d hardly care to stir, 
But that family, you know, are well wrapt up in fur. 
They tarried at night till a small boy had gone to bed, 
Because they longed to borrow his pretty, Christmas sled ; 


14 


Though anyway they wished not to go in broad daylight, 
For rude humans they felt sure would ridicule the sight. 
It was rather hard at first to find a willing steed, 

Mrs. Tom declared at once a pair at least they’d need; 
They had spoken of the plan with hope that some kind 
friend, 

In a pressing case like this, would his assistance lend. 
Except for unkind feeling a dog would be the one, 

But pa Tom most wisely said, “Spare me that kind of 
fun! ” 

They had nearly given up, in blank despair they say, 
When an obliging bunny — he lived not far away, 
(Hadn’t much but skin and bones his unkind neighbors 
say),— 

This same bunny happened in at father Tom’s one day. 
Ere he left ’twas all settled: he and his brother, too, 
Would be on hand to take them, as soon as moon were 
new; 

He said ’twould be much cheaper as — he would frankly 
state — 

They’d have to make the best of a somewhat jerky gait. 
Mrs. Tom (she’s most polite) said, “ Oh, don’t mention 
that, 

“ Such little things are beneath the notice of a cat.” 

’Tis such a crying pity,— we wished their start to see,— 
Lady Moon had hid her face, ’twas dark as it could be. 


5 


HELPING MAMMA. 

Mamma was very busy, house-cleaning all the morn, 

And Elsie standing idle was feeling quite forlorn. 

Why couldn’t she do something to hurry matters 
through ? 

For one thing, those poor flowers were thirsty, as she 
knew; 

Not a drop of water had been given them to drink, 

She could just reach the faucet on a chair, by the sink. 

Mamma would be delighted to find one thing was done, 
And as for little Elsie, why ’twould be simply fun! 
Hoppity-skip she started, her sunny face aglow, 

First to the china-closet where pitchers in a row 
Were waiting patiently for just such a time of need, 

The cut-glass one was nearest, its weight she did not 
heed. 

From the pipe the handiest ran water piping hot, 

But that kind was always used in the silver tea-pot; 

She had heard mamma say of things which were not 
thriving 

That there was no doubt but what heat would be reviv¬ 
ing. 

The pretty begonia on the parlor table 

She would brighten first, if to lift it she proved able. 

Proudly she landed it (though it was a heavy lug,) 

Safely in the centre of papa’s new, white fur rug; 


16 


But the more she watered it the more wilted it grew, 

Dear me — what could the reason be — streams were 
running through! 

Little pools of water were now speeding o’er the floor, 

Strange! she’d never noticed such queer ways of theirs 
before. 

No doubt mamma sopped them up, and she could do the 
same, 

But for things to bother so ’twas really a shame. 

The light afghan, large and soft, would be the very 
thing, 

She had just dragged it down when she heard the door¬ 
bell ring, 

Upstairs she flew for Bridget to open the front door; 

Surely, she had never been of so much use before ! 


A RAG-DOLL’S SOLILOQUY. 

I must admit I’m fading, as any one can see, 

All know how very smiling and bright I used to be. 
Doctor says (he thinks I’ve no more feeling than a stone) 
That he finds decided lack of muscle and of bone; 
Perhaps that’s why I’m so limp and have sinking turns, 
too, 

Fair girlie says that, for help, she knows not what to do. 
She — I call her ‘ girlie,’ though it may not seem polite ; 
But I have no breath to waste, they’d know that at first 
sight,— 


She says I was never like her other dollies dear, 

She wants to make me happy the little while I’m here; 

It fairly makes me shiver to hear the way she speaks, 

As if my whole existence were measured by the weeks. 
The halve of my left-hand heart doesn’t ‘pulserate’ 
right — 

Do they expect ’twill cure it to give me such a fright ? 
Girlie remarked the other day, right before my face, 

That ’fessionally mine is called a very bad case; 

Though ’tis said my nervous fistim is a perfect wreck, 
I’m glad I’ve something perfect, ’tis more than I’d ex¬ 
pect. 

Girlie is so worried to see how little I eat, 

And tries to persuade me to chew bendaloin meat; 

I’m to have cast-iron and milk, unequal parts mixed,— 

I shall soon have to begin, for they’ve got it all fixed,— 
To take each time there’s a strike at the big nursery 
clock; 

Girlie says, “ When you wake at night be sure that you 
knock.” 

It proves I’m remarkable to receive so much care, 

In character and looks I suppose I must be rare, 

But to think of all the ailments I’ve got doctor said, 
’Twill relieve my mind, I know, when I find that I’m 
dead. 


i8 


LITTLE JOHNNY G. 

. v . 

Of John Gilpin no doubt you’ve heard, 

He helped to make a poet’s fame, 

(In doing so, as recompense 
He for himself received a name). 

The present tiny Johnny G. 

Ran very much the same fast rig, 

Though a slight change there was in this,— 
His steed was but a small, white pig. 

His little heart was stoutly set 
On reaching town ahead of time, 

If the dear pig had felt so too, 

You would not have to hear this rhyme. 

The piggy’s mind (if mind he had, 

We really won’t try to say),— 

His head and feet, you may be sure, 

Were bound to stop about half way. 

Straight down the road, with right good-will, 
He started off in race-horse style, 

And Johnny proudly sat erect, 

O’er his face spread a beaming smile. 

Though this one pig had never learned 
How sweet it is to but obey, 

He must have known it wasn’t right 
To choose that time for selfish play. 


19 


It happened near a large farm-yard, 

Of course he may have heard a call 
In grunting tones from some small chum 
Who cared for Johnny not at all. 

When first he knew (the child we mean) 
That things were not all going well 
The ground beneath seemed prone to rise 
And then to sink, like ocean swell. 

The next he knew he didn’t know 
For one long hour, so some one said, 

For — if the truth be fairly told — 

He’d landed on his little head. 

You may believe — no doubt you will, 

For you would feel the same we know — 
When piggy runs another race 
The boy has no desire to go. 


WHY MAY NOT I? 

(MUSINGS: BY MISS KITTEN.) 

I’ve ever noticed, day by day, 

That these little children sweet 
Have the cunningest laced-up shoes 
On their two, small, chubby feet. 

Why should I have to go without ? 
Is it because I have four ? 


20 


But surely that’s just the reason 
Why I need them all the more. 

When the streets are very muddy 
Little girls wear rubbers new, 

I hate to get my soft paws wet, 

Why may I not have some, too ? 

In waterproofs they are wrapped up 
When in storms they go to town, 

My nice fur coat gets badly drenched 
When the rain comes pelting down. 

A small umbrella o’er their heads 
Keeps their hair so nice and dry, 
’Twould be the very thing for me — 
They have one, why may not I ? 

’Tis refreshing they look so cool 
When the summer sun is high, 

They all have a different suit 
At that time, so why can’t I ? 

When they hungry are or thirsty, 
Though I’ve never heard them mew, 
They help themselves to what they like. 
Why mayn’t I do that way, too ? 

They are invited out to tea, 

To behave like them I try, 

But I’ve never been included — 

They run in, why may not I ? 


(I am certainly as dressy, 

In pale yellow I’m arrayed, 

With trimmings a trifle darker, 

Tie and mitts a soft white shade.) 

They do not love to go to bed, 
Although others want them to, 
When I run up to take a nap 
Is the time I get a shoo. 

They are not put out doors to sleep, 
It of course would make them cry; 
They talk with all their little mights 
I’d like to, why cannot I ? 

They have a dear canary bird 
And oft let it out to fly, 

They never want me in the room, 
They love it, why may not I ? 

Fido escorts them all about, 

I am quite as young and spry, 

He trots behind their pony-cart — 

I love them, why may not I ? 


22 


PICKANINNIES. 

A picture of Southern life we saw the other day,— 

Six little woolly heads, each roguish face turned this 
way; 

Six expansive young mouths, all having such a broad 
smile 

Tis strange that the pearls in view could keep their 
hold meanwhile. 

Twelve mischievous eyes, oft rolling, the dark pupils 
float 

In a deep milky sea, each in its own little boat; 

(Though you had ne’er known before, you would find at 
this sight 

What a difference there is ’twixt the black and the 
white.) 

Twelve small, chubby feet — one could count each funny 
toe-pig, 

Surely they “go to market ” in a very black rig! 

And just think, sixty fingers ! What if you had them 
all? 

They’d keep you so busy you could do nothing at all! 

Only six tongues, unruly, though ere silent they grew, 

They’d no doubt pass for sixty by their hullabaloo. 

About sixty patches, clapped gayly on, here and there, 

All shapes, styles, and colors, some in design quaint and 
rare. 


23 


Of wide-rimmed straw hats there were not enough to go 
’round, 

You’d think they all took a bite of the one that they 
found, 

In spite of such frailties we feel — so winsome the 
sight — 

Nature painted them black, but left their little hearts 
white. 


A TINMAN. 

A tinman has stopped at a house on the road, 

He came without horse and had no wagon-load; 

He bought not, and had naught to sell, it is said — 
Why ? ’Tis because of tin he himself is made ! 

He wears a red vest and a dark blue jacket, 

(I’ll tell you the rest if you’ll stop that racket,) 

And trousers in stripes of red, blue and yellow. 

He certainly is a ‘bright’ little fellow. 

His wide yellow tie and his odd, black goatee 
Are the funniest things you’d e’er chance to see; 
But quite out of health he must lately have been, 
One would know at a glance he’s so very thin. 

The part most surprising remains to be told,— 
Press the top of his hat, and lo and behold! 

His long arms and limbs fly both upward and down, 
His face, which had worn a disconsolate frown, 

Is now overspread by an amazing smile; 

His mouth opens wide, and his eyes roll the while. 
If you’d like to see him — the comical dear — 

Take an automobile and come over here; 

He seems not to wish o’er the country to roam, 

So you may be sure that you’ll find him at home. 


24 


GRIMALKINS. 

A row of cunning pussies adorn a mantel-shelf, 

If you only could see them for your own little self! 

They are hard to describe with any justice in view 
Their charms are so many and fitting words are so few. 

One stands looking straight upward, she is watching a 
bird 

Which she asked in to supper, the reply she’s not heard; 
Another, with eye-glasses tilted on her small nose, 

Is reading the Cats’ Journal and, too, warming her toes. 

One in a market-basket has just taken a seat 

So that she’ll be all ready when they put in the meat; 

Another (she’s alone) is trying on a lace scarf, 

Of course she looks funny — we’ll leave the owner to 
laugh. 

One, to assist the tired cook is preparing some fish — 
But look out! she’s not putting it in quite the right 
dish; 

Another, is kindly helping on with some knitting 
Which was left in a chair where her mistress was sitting. 

Besides these charming pussies, if you’d look you would 
see, 

Groups of cats varied in number, pursuits and degree : 
Some are assembled at church; others, coasting down 
hill; 

Some, holding a concert; others (a few) lying still. 


25 


Some, dressed up for a party ; others tucked up in bed; 

Some, at school where they are drilled in the Mewses ’tis 
said; 

Others, attending a circus in holiday rig 

And gayly watching a race twixt a cat and a pig. 

Some, masquerading at home just to scare the small kits 

(Asked there, all unsuspecting,) into spasmodic fits; 

Others, at Thanksgiving dinner — the ma presiding, 

One young puss, in disgrace, behind his chair is hiding. 

Some, trimming a Christmas tree, ’tis of course late at 
night, 

But naughty kits in night-caps have peeked in for a 
sight. 

Surely this one subject has now begun to grow thin, 

So what remains of the “yarn” we’ll let other hands 
spin. 


26 


THE QUEEN OF THE BROWNIES. 

That ’tis so one would not think at first sight, 

In either morning or electric light 

They look as unlike as dark brown and white, 

One with but a glance would say we are right. 

She’s not — as they are — odd, elf-like and small, 
She’s graceful, fair and decidedly tall, 

And she wears glasses though only, they say, 

That brownies shall not skip unseen away. 

If she were the cause of their many pranks 
Of course she’d not be deserving of thanks, 

But surely no blame can fall upon her, 

It is their nature to make a grand stir. 

Kind little deeds in peaceful times between, 

Show the influence of “ Brownie ” — their Queen ; 

If it were not for her firm, gentle reign 
Those lively urchins would do naught but train. 
Their master’s sole thought, as shown by his rhyme, 
Is how they can have the funniest time; 

If they develop as older they grow 

Thanks will be due to Queen Brownie, you know. 

Should in free States a chair Royal be seen, 

’Twill be when brownies so honor their Queen. 

(It must be designed by a wiser head, 

As their tiny size they know not, ’tis said; 

In ascending, she would have to linger 
And take their throne on her little finger.) 


27 


BROWNIES AT NANTUCKET. 

A band of those truant urchins 
To Nantucket skipped one day, 

Just as the aged dame herself — 

Famed Nan Tucket , by the way — 

Was fashioning some dainty things 
Out of potter’s finest clay; 

(In work original and quaint 
She most skilful is, they say.) 

She wished to fitly decorate 
A child’s small saucer and cup, 

So down she sat upon the sand, 

Bound to think the matter up, 

When all at once these funny sprites 
Chanced to pop within her view, 

“ Why, goodness me ! Come here ! ” cried she, 
“ You will just exactly do ! ” 

They dared not to disobey her, 

So they perched where she did say, 

They little thought, but so it proved, 

That they ne’er could get away! 

Should the dear old lady Tucket 
Deign to ask you there to sup, 

She’d be pleased, no doubt, to show you 
A “ brownie ” saucer and cup. 


28 


PUSSY-WILLOWS. 

Why is the pussy-willow 
Ever the first one to hear 
Spring’s softly whispering tones 
When she is but drawing near ? 

Perchance the tiny pussy 
Just so shrinking is at heart 
That anything advancing 
Serves to give the dear a ‘ start.’ 

Then Nature’s gentle fingers 
Pull off the brown overcoat 
Which had wrapped the gray pussy 
Snugly up, way to its throat. 

Have children e’er, we wonder, 
Chanced to be just then so near 
That a surprised little mew 
They might, when listening, hear ? 

As with free, swaying motion 
In the breeze bushes are bent, 

Does the pussy give, also, 

Frequent wee purrs of content ? 

In her willowy cradle, 

Lazily rocked to and fro, 

Lulled by the sweet song of birds 
She takes, oft, “ cat-naps,” you know. 


29 


When the pussy older grows, 

What strange form can be in sight 

To make her soft, clinging fur 

Stand out straight and pale from fright ? 

’T would well explain the reason 
If the dear were some day met — 

As she’s followed in the Spring — 

By the a^-tooth violet. 

’Tis for them a happy time 
When a little maiden fair 
Takes a group of pussies home, 

Safe and warm they nestle there. 


FLOWERETS. 

In the Spring when little seeds are shivering with cold 

Kind mother Earth is ready to cover them, we’re told; 

And they lie, snugly sleeping, right in their flower bed 

Till the sunshine awakes them, then they spring up ’tis 
said. 

Sleepy and cross, at first, are the tiny plants you know, 

When things do not suit them they hang their heads 
and won’t grow. 

It sometimes happens (at least, so the humming-bird 
said,) 

That a posy jumps up from the wrong side of the bed; 

You can imagine, no doubt, as the blossoms all say, 

That nothing goes right with her for the rest of the day ; 


30 


It is, in the grown-up flowers, of kindness a lack 
Unless they just give her a shake and put her right 
back! 

If at their own bed-time you e’er chance to be in sight 
You’ll see the little buds nodding a drowsy 4 good-night.’ 
It is a wee girlie’s mamma who shows her just how 
To make, when she is leaving, a polite little bow; 

But with a blossom the frolicsome wind, it is said, 

Tells her when to shake and nod her own sweet little 
head. 

If the flowers are invited away to a lunch 
Do you suppose that they like to be tied in a bunch ? 
With their new dresses mussed, and their best capes all 
askew, 

They can’t even stoop to fasten their own tiny shoe; 
And of course they are expecting to have a nice treat — 
But dear me! they are ne’er given the least thing to 
eat; 

Whisper they mustn’t, and they are not asked to sit 
down, 

You’d think they’d decline and stay in their own little 
town. 

When they have company ’tis so different, you see,— 
With a bird orchestra stationed o’erhead in a tree, 

A honey-bee caterer from just over the way, 

With those obliging grasshoppers for waiters, they say; 
And to gracefully assist in receiving each guest 
The lovely young butterflies, arrayed all in their best. 

A circle of toad-stools supplies each one with a seat, 

And the soft velvet turf forms a nice rest for their feet, 
Just beyond the sunbeams merrily dance on the green, 


3i 


In all the fairy-like movements by mortals unseen; 

The air, sweetly perfumed, gently fans each blossom’s 
face 

When its little head droops, which they say oft is the 
case. 

The many dainties with which the round table is spread 
We can have no idea of, as the yellow-bird said; 

For such elfin little parties, where’er they may be, 

Even dear children’s eyes are not bright enough to see. 

Of the flowers’ affairs, you wonder how we have heard ? 
Why, my dear, they were told us by a bright little bird; 
Just once in a while (sometimes, too, with mortals ’tis so,) 
They simply cannot resist telling all that they know; 
Although no doubt their bird wisdom they long to im¬ 
part, 

For their soft feathers cover such a warm little heart. 
Usually — at least, when they are not short of time — 
They pen their effusions in a sweet, ‘ sing-songy ’ rhyme; 
Could you but see, just then, a learned bird on the sly,— 
Cap and gown on, quill in claw, and round glass in his 
eye! 

How wise the children would be if they were not deterred 
From reading the ‘ notes ’ of any observing young bird ! 
A wonderful, fairy-like world would be opened, too, 

If Dame Nature allowed them the real “ bird’s-eye view.” 


A PICTURE. 


A little lad chubby, smiling and fair; 

A little round cap o’er closely cut hair; 

A funny jacket, a small square-toed shoe 
(No doubt he is square in other ways, too;) 

Plump little hands with round dimples in sight, 

May they e’er as now do just about right! 

The background is dark, the grass white with snow, 
A house here and there looks dismal you know, 

’Tis sombre indeed, why such is the case — 

Light has all crept to that one little face; 

It kisses his cheek and peeps from his eye 
When hiding within is lovely ‘ clear sky,’ 

Should now and then a wee cloud drift between, 
Just toss him up, he’ll come down all serene. 

To paint such jolly lines for a small elf 
Old lady Nature exerted herself, 

Let us hope — to so express it in rhyme — 

They’ll not be rubbed out by grim Father Time. 
The little lad’s name you’ve not heard at all, 

If you should guess it you’ll have to that’s all; 

But you may be sure this one thing is true — 

Pie’s certainly not ‘The little boy blue! 


33 


PUT OFF AT WELLINGTON. 

[Suggested by a picture of a valise from which a cat’s head arises.] 

This poor dame Tabby, with cap and glasses on, 

Was just a mark for others to pick upon; 

Finally she said, “To have a little peace 
“I’ll take a short trip within my own valise; 

“ I long to see kinder relatives, and so 
“To the thriving town of Catington I’ll go.” 

We can imagine ’twas a very hard case 
To be put off at a little country place. 

With a start her head popped right out of the bag, 

“ Miew, miew ! ” cried she, “ they took the wrong tag.” 
You’d see the mistake, for the matter of that, 

They’d begun with a * Well ’ instead of a ‘ Cat.’ 

’Tis simply a mercy — she’s thankful for that — 

It was not Dogville where they left the sweet cat. 
Catington (the name adorns the station sign) 

Is much further up, on the branching 4 Fe ’ Line; 

In that lovely spot, in rich profusion grow, 

The slender cat-tail and the pussy-willow. 

But nothing can induce the birdies, they say, 

To stop there one moment when flying that way; 

’Twas not long ago one downward cast a look 
And trembled so her little feathers just shook; 

She said that a glance at those great furry things 
Was enough to take all the strength from her wings. 
She is still expecting,— she had such a fright,— 

To find that her top-knot has fairly grown white. 


34 


If you should see her in that state this season 
You may be sure that we’ve stated the reason. 

A secret they guard with the most zealous care, 
Is the way to Birdland, so cats won’t go there; 
Flowerford adjoins on the south side you know, 
But don’t tell Jack Frost they all dislike him so. 
When they have a picnic ’twill be a rare sight, 
They know a little girl they’ve planned to invite. 


A WONDER-BAG. 

You wonder what it is for and what is in it, too ? 

Why, of course, that is just what you are supposed to 
do! 

’Tis to make children wonder, that is what it is for, 

It should be filled with * bright ’ things and cute, as 
e’er you saw. 

To begin with, we will state, in case you wish to know — 
For many of you, no doubt, are old enough to sew — 
The bag is fifteen inches long, about thirteen wide, 

Use thick sateen, chintz or crash, that you can best 
decide; 

Or if you would like, it could be ornamental, too, 

Have linen worked in outline with pretty pink or blue. 
(When fairly emptied, it is so nice to have around — 

We can drop in little things, it keeps them safe and 
sound.) 

It is gathered at the top, just down an inch or two, 

And on each side, to draw it up, ribbons are run 
through. 


35 


From out of its mouth — that is, from between its 
closed lips — 

Issue numberless strings, all having little card tips; 
They float over the side while they are anchored below, 
For the other end is tied to a parcel, you kno\tf. 

It is neatly rolled up and snugly bound, too, with 
string, 

So that of its contents one can’t at first know a thing, 
Except what the small slip outside is willing to say, 
Which is merely to mention some particular day 
When one is at liberty (not a minute before) 

To pull out that very gift, but not anything more 1 
Your own wit will tell you, mostly, what to put inside, 
’Twill be an easy matter when once you nave but tried, 
We will give you an idea and that no doubt will do, 

Add any day you think of and the holidays, too. 

(The bag is not designed for children so well as you, 

But for a darling shut off from much that you can do. 
Small, funny things are needed, you know where they 
are sold,— 

At Japanese stores and five-cent counters we are told; 
Gifts your little fingers make are really the best, 

Set your busy wits at work and only buy the rest.) 

** For busy days ” a needle-book, one that you can make, 
For faint days a scent bag, you can all those stitches 
take; 

Right “For any day” is something children love to 
String- 

Beads of different sizes, to make a chain and ring. 

For a very long dog-day a narrow roll of bark , 

And for jolly, flying days just draw a funny Tark.’ 

On small squares of bristol-board make letters with red 
ink, 


36 

(To spell words), for red-letter days they’ll be liked we 
think; 

If you cut out all the kitten pictures you can find, 

They will be amusing for a * mewsing ’ frame of mind. 
Remember, the things must be left just so long and far 
As one can live and breathe without knowing what they 
are. 


PART II. 









QUESTIONING. 


Have you chanced to meet, arising, 
The first sunny glance of day ? 

Have you noticed in the evening 
The scene where soft moonlight lay ? 

Have you ever paused at sunset 
When the glory of the sky 
In a wondrous mass of color 
Is revealed while drifting by ? 

Have you listened in the Spring-time 
To the low, sweet song of birds 
As they carol Nature’s music 
Which she’s ne’er yet set to words ? 

Have you stopped to view in summer, 
Near the mountains, woods and sea, 
All the beauty and the grandeur 
Waiting there for us to see ? 

Have you witnessed the grand combat 
When massed forces meet again 
With the flashing gleam of fire-arms 
And the sweeping storm of rain ? 

Though first the silent gathering 
Of strong armies sent before, 

Then the o’erwhelming battle-rush 
And cannons’ threatening roar. 


40 


Have you gazed when it has ended, 

And the arching rain-bow seen, 

At the ranks of light and darkness 
With that sign of peace between ? 

Have you watched when by the ocean 
While the swift, incoming tide 
Is repulsed by stern sentinels 
And its white spray tossed aside ? 

Have you drifted in a sail-boat 
O’er the water azure blue, 

When the clouds of earth were breaking 
To let Heaven’s glow shine through? 

Have you felt the fresh wind rising 
Till the glad bark onward sped, 
Skimming lightly, exultantly, 

Like a bird with white wings spread ? 

Have you found the curved, fairy shells 
In rare opal hues arrayed 
Within gray cases, sea-weed lined, 
Which the hand of Nature made ? 

Have you gloried in the pine groves, 
Breathing deep the spicy air, 

Amid the restful solitude, 

Shade, and shadows, nestled there ? 

Have you marvelled in the autumn 
At the gorgeous tint and shade 


41 


Which clothe with such brilliant vesture 
Where the Frost-king’s finger laid? 

Have you outward glanced in winter 
At the sunlight on the snow 
Where trees still laden heavily 
In a dazzling splendor show ? 

Have you upward looked in darkness 
To the starry crowns on high 
Where countless worlds like jewels rare 
Stud with shining light the sky ? 

Have you ever thought, between times, 
What free, out-door life would be 
To those who, sick and suffering, 

Cannot these fair visions see ? 


HEART’S-EASE. 

The wee cousin of the pansy — 

The shy little lady’s-delight — 

Deserves pity, the poor darling, 

In her present and grievous plight. 

Not long since, one well-intentioned 
But thoughtless — mortals sometimes are 
In pursuit of their pet hobbies 
Which oft, perchance, they ride too far. 


42 


This same mortal, so aspiring, 

Thought the meek dear might well arise 
With the needed help and culture 
To larger, fuller growth and size. 

’Twas decided to transplant her — 

Though with all due and tender care — 

To a home where both embracing 
Are found wee buds and bloom most rare. 

Around her now are strange faces, 

New fashions, too, and much display, 

Gayer blossoms feel above her, 

“ How small and plain ! ” she heard one say. 

She thinks ’tis not all improvement 
In this different life and way, 

’Mid such wealth and content blooming 
Fair pearls, unsought, unnoticed lay. 

Little seeds of thought and kindness 
Are apt to be just pushed aside, 

Graces outward and grace inward 
Seem not to flourish side by side. 

Buds there are so sweet and lovely 
’Tis beautiful their charms to see, 
Unfulfilled their promise later — 

When changed and fading — seems to be. 

Vines there are so old and withered 
Why should they cumber, still, the ground ? 


43 


Fruit most fair and growth renewing 
Beneath their shade are yearly found. 

Seeds there are which oft lay buried 
How deep and long we do not know, 
Trees ascending, far above them, 

From that source age-defying grow. 

Lives there are so cramped and hidden 
We wonder what their use may be, 
From the darkness upward springing 
True fruitfulness they yet shall see. 

Faith there is and hope remaining 
Which year by year in silence grow, 

Till they rise, in strength increasing, 
Beyond the mists and gloom below. 

Light there is divine, unfailing, 

Though faint and dim our sight may be, 
Shining ever, just beyond us, 

If through the clouds we could but see. 

Love there is supreme, abounding, 
Though drifting yet our hearts may be, 
’Tis an anchor e’er enduring 
In a troubled and changing sea. 

Life there is unchanged, undying, 
Though faltering our steps may be, 
Leading us, yet far above us, 

To its own immortality. 


44 


Peace there is ’mid care and sorrow, 
Descending white-robed from Above. 

With the patient mind abiding 

Where first have come faith, hope and love. 

Death there is for all things mortal, 

Though only in our half-blind sight, 

In angel vision ’tis but an 
Arising to Light, Love and Life. 


FORGET US NOT. 

When weary, sad, and oft lonely, too, 
Remember, dear heart, there are those who 
Forget thee not. 

Although friends may sometimes drift away. 
Those faithful remain who, come what may, 
Forget thee not. 

To one’s own heart, again and again, 

Comes softly, restfully, the refrain — 
“Forget us not.” 

On the ear falls a Voice from on High 
Saying, “ My child, be thou sure that I 
Forget thee not.” 

In the Hereafter we all shall see 
How true it was that, year by year, He 
Forgot us not. 


45 


ROBBIE. 

Where was Robbie ? Mamma had been searching high 
and low, 

He was not in the house nor in the green field below; 

Once before he had toddled away quite out of sight, 

Mamma had said, (< Naughty boy, I’ll not kiss you 
to-night.” 

Again the thought — as ever with a sharp, lurking 
fear — 

Of the enticing sea-shells, the ocean wide was near; 

Hark! hushed voices, footsteps, many persons at the 
door, 

She saw but one, for he a motionless figure bore. 

A glance, and she sank down with a low, despairing 
moan, 

The little form rested there, but the spirit had flown. 

Her heart echoed the childish voice in pleading re¬ 
frain,— 

“ I sorry, mamma, I sorry, kiss Robbie again.” 


46 


EASTER LILIES. 

(A CLUSTER OF SEVEN.) 

Ascending sweet and pure from the dark earth below, 

By a life-giving force seven white lilies grow; 

One by one their full beauty they meekly reveal, 

Where symbols of righteousness have e’er placed their 
seal. 

From Nature’s long season of rapt silence and gloom 
She sends forth at Easter renewed light, growth and 
bloom; 

Typifying in the mystic number ‘ seven ’ 

Attributes mirrored by the fair buds of Heaven. 

With fairy-like touch o’er the frail lilies, each one, 

Is traced a hidden word, by angel hand begun: 

The first, faith ; the second, hope ; the third, charity ; 
Later, in the sunshine, expand the second three. 

Peace, love and truth the clear, inner vision might see, 
The seventh bears the crown of immortality. 

In a path of light shine faith, hope and charity — 

Stars, guiding to peace, love, truth, immortality. 

Though night be long and dark, ’tis followed e’er by day, 
To the hidden life resurrection comes alway; 

Look upward — onward, let thought rise and spirit 
grow, 

Till from buried heart-germs the fair, white lilies show. 


47 


A LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN-ROD. 

It was said, you know, of Midas of old 

That whate’er he had touched was turned to gold : 

When by the wayside he once deigned to walk, 

His hand brushed ’gainst a white, flowering stalk. 

Scarce’ had he passed when each feathery spray 
Bent lower and lower, until it lay 
Prone on the grassy slope, weighed down with gold, 
Its graceful flowerets rigid and cold. 

A beneficent, little fairy sprite 

Strayed past, in a moonbeam, that very night; 

Seeing the blossoms glittering but dead, 

Her gentle heart in deepest pity bled. 

She waved her magic wand, and lo! there sped 
Life anew, to each tiny golden head. 

The flowers reviving year by year grew, 

And retained their beautiful golden hue. 


48 


THE IMPRISONED BEAM. 


(THE ELECTRIC LAMP.) 


’Twas long, long ago, 

(Just when we do not know,) 

A tiny beam of light, 

In the darkness of the night, 

Strayed from its source away: 

Can light, immortal, perish ? Nay ! 
Mind and will have found it; 

^Art and skill have crowned it; 

From its present sombre case, 

Through a pure and shining face, 
Obedient at command 
To the touch of guiding hand, 
Undiminished, undefiled — lo 1 
With a constant, softened glow 
In the darkness glistening, fair, 

The beam — the spark divine — is there. 

’Mid sorrow and repining 

Look beyond — the light is shining. 


49 


THE CINERARIA. 

The angel of Easter flowers thought one day, 

“ My favorite I’ll grace, so that all shall say — 

“ Though ’mongst others that are beauteous and rare — 
“ * Thou art, dear one, the loveliest blossom there.’ 

“For the Royal, it shall purple be, in part, 

“And also white, for the gentle * pure in heart ’; 

“ For the gay, it shall bloom in free, lavish wealth; 

“For the sick, ’twill seem a dream of joy and health. 
“For the poor, ’twill blossom full, in clusters o’er, 

“ (They’ve ne’er seen ‘ enough ’ of anything before;) 

“ For the grave, ’twill rest in leaves of sombre green, 

“ Here and there, bright faces will peep out between; 
“For the sad, ’twill speak of higher life and love,— 

“ Dark below, but freedom, beauty, light, above. 

“ Surely they all, with but one accord, shall say; 

“ ‘ Thou art most worthy to bloom on Easter day.’ ” 

And lo ! when the flowers were in beauty drest, 

The fair Cineraria led all the rest. 


50 


THE MOTHER-HEART. 

A remorseless fire starting deep in the woods of Maine, 

Controlled in early morning had broken out again; 

From a lone spot bordering on the wide path of flame, 

Rushing, panting, arms outstretched, a flying figure 
came. 

To a group of villagers awed and silent standing, 

A woman's voice was wafted, pleading, then commanding: 

“ Friends ! quick ! have pity — help — help ! ” (her tones 
grew stern and wild,) 

“ Cowards! follow me, and save my helpless, crippled 
child! ” 

For an instant no one stirred, what avail human speed ? 

Or what use a frenzied horse racing with Flame’s grim 
steed ? 

Neither could the child be borne on a man’s narrow 
wheel, 

Suddenly a lad cried out, " Here ! try the new mobile! ” 

Others waited, agonized, watching with bated breath, 

Which would triumphant be — which the victor — life or 
death ? 

Hush! from out the smoky gloom comes, speeding, the 
mobile, 

Three figures are crouching low ’gainst its strong heart 
of steel. 


5i 


v 


The woman’s face is blistered, her hands burned places 
show, 

Quivering breaths part her lips which parched and 
whiter grow; 

Tender souls lift her gently — she raised her head and 
smiled, 

With dying voice she murmured, “ We’ve saved — we’ve 
saved — the child 1 ” 


GENERAL HOOKER. 

From Massachusetts Joe Hooker’s honored name 
Needs no eulogy, enduring'is his fame; 

Freedom’s cherished hand — in eighteen sixty-two — 
Clasped his own, and now crowns the Hero anew. 

Still in battle garb, time and age defying, 

Mortality gives place to a form undying ; 

Future generations shall from the statue know 
How the Soldier’s country her praise and honor show. 
June 25, 1903. 


52 


A DISPUTE. 

(BETWEEN A CIRCULAR SAW AND A TURNING-LATHE.) 

The Saw began it, in his wheezing tone, 
Hithertofore he had e’er reigned alone; 

With stern, dark face he brought his gaze to bear 
Upon the Lathe, boldly intruding there. 

“This place,” began he, “as you see is small, 

“ I beg to remark there’s not room for all; 

“ The door, as you’ll also perceive, is wide — 

“ No doubt you’ll find it reviving outside.” 

The Lathe answered, with a most polite bow, 

“ Delightful is such kind thought I’ll allow, 

“ But I will state — for whom it may concern — 

“ I have been sent here to give things a turn, 

“ For the reason that the present inmate 
“ Proves wholly unlearned and inadequate.” 

“Your words,” growled the other, “I let pass, for 
“ You’ve yet to behold the things that I saw.” 

Said the Lathe, “ What are you talking about ? 
“As if they’d compare with those / turn out! 
“You make noise enough we all would agree, 

“ What it amounts to, I’m sure I can’t see.” 

The Saw set his teeth (they’d set like a vise, 

And he liked not to be told a thing twice). 
Sputtered he: “You are extremely polite 
“To malign symphony, just out of spite: 

“ My classical themes those, only, should hear 
“ Who have good taste and a musical ear; 


53 


“ Frailty is ever inclined so to turn, 

“ Its merits are small and hard to discern, 

“ And ’tis the nature of weak minds to crow — 

“ What of your work are you willing to show ? ” 
Silently the Lathe pointed to the spot 
Where stood a wee little wooden bean-pot, 

With tiny cover and round knob to hold, 

In shape and finish quite perfect we’re told. 

The Saw blankly turned his face to the wall, 
Answering the other nothing at all, 

Though determined in what he set about, 

He knew he never could have sawed that out. 

The Lathe murmured, with a satisfied smile, 

“ Perhaps an upstart is quenched for a while, 

“ He may deign now to think — and ’twould be meet 
“That I’m more than the dust beneath his feet.” 

J ust then, as he happened to hear the din, 

The master mechanic came rushing in ; 

“ See here ! ” cried he, “ this contention must stop, 

“ Or one of you two will move from this shop.” 

The Saw settled back with a smothered sigh, 

The Lathe softly giggled, “He’s mad, oh my / ” 


54 


PETER INNESS GRUNT. 

(A METAL PIG CONTAINING A TAPE-MEASURE.) 

Though a ‘ pigmy ’ I seem, ’tis the truth 
That I measure just a yard, forsooth; 

And surely this fact is very queer — 

Turn my tail, and ‘ three feet * disappear, 
Though ’tis according to Swineburne lore 
That, of feet, I shall still have just four: 
Considering this, you will agree 
That an odd little pig I must be. 

Though never yet have I made a sound, 

My ear is keen, and my wit profound — 
Whate’er the sum of figures may be, 

I shall ‘ take it all in,’ as you’ll see; 

But like other pigs (it does seem hard) 

They’ll not let me out beyond a ‘ yard.’ 

Surprised you may be that pigs can rhyme, 
But like ‘ Bacon ’ they become in time ; 

“ If parts allure thee think how Bacon shined. 
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.” 
So do not disdain a line from me, 

Though small, a mean pig I’ll never be. 

Just one thing there is that makes me cry. 
You are bound to dot my little z, 

I suppose you never stop to think, 

But it bothers me each time I wink; 

If you’d understand my feelings, try 
Clapping a dot right over your eye ! 


55 


As in State affairs, the fact you’ll see 
Much “ tape ” there is in dealing with me, 

Its not being “red” will only show 
That ’tis of more use than some we know. 

When a poet once our tribe did choose, 

Of course ’twas Swineburne who voiced our Muse; 
Charles Lamb, also, admired us you know, 

He thought time well spent in saying so; 

Minds learned, now as then, do not try 
To live unaided by such as I, 

And honor to us it does portend 
That cultured Boston has a “pig end” ; 

If, to all, mere justice were meted, 

With much respect we should be treated. 

As lately proved, our charms, too, are known,— 

A beautiful child, about half grown, 

Had lingered long where dainties were spread, 

And some one right in my hearing said, 

(I’m not stretching truth a bit too far,) 

“ Why, how like a little pig you are ! ” 

When I told my kin what I’ve stated, 

Of course we felt highly elated, 

We’d no idea we’d such a sweet face — 

It may seem strange, but such is the case ; 

Since, I’ve thought of my looks now and then, 
Though I’m determined not to grow vain, 

But I do hope not to have a sty 
Right where you dot my poor little i; 

Perhaps you forget that — by the bye — 

With us a ‘ pen ’ ever makes a * sty.’ 


56 


If to my home you’ll now point the way, 

In grunting tones I’ll bid you good-day, 

And you’ll not have to again see me, 

I will requiespig in pact. 

(For the translation you’d have to hunt,— 

’Tis this: “ Piggy, lie still and don’t grunt.” 

Three letters in the first Latin word 
Grimalkins say — at least, we’ve so heard — 
Originally were written ‘ cat ’! 

Wise humans, all, know better than that; 

It proves the fact —’tis well to repeat — 

There's naught to cats but fur and co7iceit; 

Pigs — thank goodness ! — have sense and are meek, 
Although so honored, praise they’d not seek. 

I will but add my initials three, 

May they e’er remain — just P. I. G.) 


THE WITCHES’ STEED. 

At a grand conclave of witches, in the past decade, 
Voicing their decision the presiding regent said : 

“ Being too advanced for sailing o’erhead on a broom, 
“We’ll now descend to earth for needed comfort and 
room. 

“ Bicycling is too active work witches’ hearts to please — 
“ Greater speed we desire, sitting quietly at ease; 

“ Cars we like not, restricted to but a narrow track, 

“ Mortals content with such means do show their mental 
lack; 

“ We’d have freedom, light, air, untrammelled and uncon¬ 
fined. 


57 


“ Obeying our instant wish, oft as we change our mind. 
“ Our name we deserve not if we haven’t wit enough 
“ To straightway conjure up — out of the true, witch-like 
stuff — 

“ Something unique, astounding, grand, which mortals 
shall see 

“Is run by pure witchcraft, as a witches’ craft should be. 
“If they monopolize it and steal our patent right, 

“ As they are apt to, we’ll give them now and then a 
fright,— 

“They’ll find that our steed partakes of our nature a bit, 
“It may be tractable or not, just as we see fit; 

“ When they too presuming grow, lo I it will be our text, 
“To abruptly land them all — in this world or the next! 
“ Till they let our rights alone and not our glory steal, 

“ For the sole use we’ll contend of the ‘witches’-mobile.’ ” 


THAT HORRID CREASE. 

(A RHYME IN PROSE.) 

[The following incident occurred at the time in which the ‘horrid 
crease ’ first came into fashion.] 

The good old farmer Dale and his wife, for the very 
first time in their life, were about starting away to spend 
Thanksgiving Day with their son John in the city, and 
oh! it was such a pity, that just as the old man got 
dressed (in his spandy new, glossy 'best,’) he found 
that — horror of horrors ! down the whole length of his 
trousers ran such a broad, horrid crease as would surely 


58 


never cease to look odd and countrified to John, the last 
thought was too much to be borne. The poor man hur¬ 
ried into the room where his wife was smoothing her 
few locks of hair. 

“ Eliza Ann,” gasped he, “look a’ there! I declare 
I’ve a great mind to swear.” 

“Why, good land!” cried she, “sure enough; 
they’ll think it’s that cheap, sleazy stuff — hold on, 
I’ll fix it,” and away she flew, her shawl trailing after 
her all askew. On the kitchen stove most luckily sot 
the big flat-iron as oft needed — hot; she seized it, 
rammed the press-board up his knee, and pressed till 
hardly a sign could you see of that conspicuous crease 
which certainly now would cease to make them abjectly 
forlorn at the thought of annoying John. 

With a final rush they started again, spent and 
breathless they but just caught the train which bore 
them away to pass that one day with John, and then-— 
ah me! their faces you should see; it seemed as if a 
long, spiteful crease by some unkind Fate would never 
cease to stare them directly in the eye from each fine, 
masculine passer-by. As for John, if such a thing could 
have been you’d have thought he must have ironed 
his in! 

The old man was all taken aback to think that after 
all he should lack the horrid, stylish crease, and he will 
never cease to deeply rue the day it was ironed away, 
leaving him forlorn (oh, what a pity!) while he was with 
John right in the city ! 


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